Scenes from a universe in which Elizabeth took the station chief job.
Fate. It should be a simple concept.
Fate. Noun. The development of events beyond a person's control is regarded as determined by a supernatural power.
Fate. Verb. To be destined to happen, turn out, or act in a particular way.
It's a four-letter word with a simple definition—a lot like love.
Love. Noun. An intense feeling of deep affection.
Love. Verb. To feel deep affection for (someone).
Yet, both words have caused Henry more trouble than he'd like to admit. His ex-wife's sleeping frame is draped on his chest. Her bare skin touches his bare skin. Her breathing is slow and soft. Fate. Love. It all boils down to her. They find themselves in a tangle of sheets far too often for two people who claim to hate one another. She's been his wife and his lover. A friend and a foe. Hell, she may have been the greatest enemy he's ever had.
There had been no holds barred at the mediation table. There were insults, veiled and not so veiled. There were tears and raised voices. There were threats and pleas. Henry remembers it all, but most importantly, he remembers how the tables had turned. He remembers the sick satisfaction of winning as she finally lowered her gaze, too hurt even to cry. She whispered, 'He can have it.' And most of all, he remembers the sex two days later. Dirty and quick in a dive bar bathroom. He can't even remember how the evening started or how they found themselves in that bathroom. It had been a mutual thing, both of them needing to hurt the other.
And they did. The sex was rough. Her nails had dug into his back, and his teeth bit her skin. It was hot. It ended with regret as she pulled her skirt down, her face flushed. When their eyes met, he couldn't tell who hated the other more. He watched her walk out the door, and that was it. That should have been the end of them.
Except, here they are in bed.
Fate. It keeps happening.
Love. No matter how hard he tries to hate her, his affection doesn't dissipate. In fact, it grows. Each time, he is surprised by his capacity to forgive and to cherish.
Henry's eyes wander down to her naked form. She is sprawled across him, enveloping him. Her head on his chest, her leg thrown over his thighs.
"I still love you," he whispers into the night, testing the words on his lips. He's scared of them in a way, scared that the sentiment will never truly die. It won't if they keep doing this, he figures. There's the part of him that never wants it to die. He'd give anything for their family to be together again—the five of them under the same roof. He would do anything to erase their mistake and start again.
He watches the steady rise and fall of her chest, "Elizabeth," he whispers, running his hand softly through her platinum-colored hair.
She barely stirs, and he smiles at her furrowed brow.
"Babe, you have to wake up," he tries again a little louder.
Her nose scrunches, and her eyes slowly open. Her gaze immediately lands on him.
"Mornin'," she mumbles, "What time is it?"
"Early," Henry replies, "But kids are going to be up soon, you have to leave,"
She nods. It's his week. If it's one thing they've been good at, it's not letting the kids in on their confusing sex life. They're both pretty sure it's a bad idea to have a conversation about having sex with your ex-spouse with your three kids under eleven.
He watches her stretch forever, doomed to be entranced by the way she moves. It's always so elegant, with just a hint of clumsiness around the edges.
She smiles softly when she notices his gaze. She leans down kissing him, and for a moment, it's as if nothing ever changed.
"I have to be at Langley in two hours anyway," and just like that, in one sentence, she ruins it. The anger and resentment creeps into his chest. Langley. The CIA. The Station Chief Job. The things she chose over him and their children. His fated love for her is fully a curse and no longer a blessing.
"You'll be on time to pick up the kids on Thursday?" He asks, his tone now icy and distant. She feels the change. It's always so swift. Her feelings for him don't ebb and flow like his do for her. They are constant, unbreakable waves that crash into her, knocking her off of her feet and never allowing her to stand.
"Of course I will. I'm always on time," she answers trying to keep her tone neutral through the lie. The truth is, if she had been late one more time the custody arrangement would not be as equal as it is. The judge had made that clear. He called a bad mother in all the ways he could think of before blessing her with forty-five percent parenting time and fifty percent medical decision-making. She had felt the shame as his eyes scanned her. He saw a woman who would put work over her children and that was a hard thing for her to hear. Most nights, she wonders if that's the truth. Is that what she did when she refused to cut her career short and continue to answer her country's call to service?
She turns to him much more sincerely as she's buttoning her shirt, "I'll be on time. 3:30, it's on my calendar. School first and then the daycare," she says, trying to prove to him that she doesn't let her job come in the way of being a responsible parent.
Henry nods, and she smiles weakly at him.
"See you," she whispers as she leans in, kissing him softly. He doesn't return the gesture, and she swallows thickly. Her heart sinks into her stomach, and her eyes prick with tears.
They have to quit doing this.
…X…X…X…
Nightmare. Noun. A frightening or unpleasant dream, a terrifying or very unpleasant experience or prospect, and lastly, a terrifying or very unpleasant experience or prospect.
Elizabeth lives with all of the above. Every single definition of the word nightmare has become her life. She started awake in a cold sweat two and a half hours after falling asleep. She usually does. She knows she's supposed to tell someone about it. At least, that's what the post-deployment pamphlets tell her. Talk to a friend, a therapist, or someone. She'd tried to talk to Henry when she first came home, but he was so cold. 'I don't know what it'll look like when you get back.' And he turned into a nightmare.
So, she kept the nightmares to herself as she dealt with the waking one. The one of her marriage crumbling. The one she didn't think would actually happen. A divorce. A custody battle. A house so lonely fifty-five percent of the time. She never thought it would get to this.
They haven't spoken in five weeks; it turns out co-parenting can be accomplished via email. But not parent-teacher conferences. He rolled his eyes when she jogged into the school with seconds to spare; the only thing that saved her was the parent before them was a talker. He gave her the same look he gave her five Tuesday's ago when she left his house. The same house that used to be their house. The same bed that used to be their bed.
Henry looks at her with sympathy, though, as Allison's artwork is placed in front of them. Her six-year-old has drawn her family, which was the assignment, Henry and the kids outside his house, and Elizabeth on the other side of the paper, noticeably wearing her green fatigue pants. Her absence for that thirteen months had not gone unnoticed.
"Well, I think it's beautiful," Elizabeth says, her smile tight as she runs her finger along the edge of the paper. She hates how much the drawing resembles the life she's currently living. She feels Henry's pinky on the outside of her thigh as the teacher continues to boast love for their daughter's advanced artistic talent. She knows his hate wave is finally wanning and allowing him to be hit with the love wave. The wave that will eventually lead to sex. It's always sex. Never talk of reconciling. Never mentions of love. Never sweet, emotional compliments or conversation. Sex.
Fifteen minutes after the conference, she's pressed against a Holiday Inn door. A hotel room she knows she'll foot the bill for even though he's the one who kissed her in the school parking lot.
She has to quit doing this.
…X…X…X…
Envy. A feeling of discontented or resentful longing aroused by someone else's possessions, qualities, or luck.
She brought a date. It runs through Henry's mind over and over. His eyes glance in her direction all night- when he's talking to the PTA moms. Or when he's wooing the administration of the fancy private high school, his willingness to volunteer. And even when he's trying to outbid her on a silent auction. All night, a tit-for-tat between them on a stupid basket filled with UVA merchandise neither of them actually wanted. But it's a connection.
They haven't slipped in two years. Granted, Elizabeth forward deployed again for a year of that time, but he still counts it as a win.
"It's just getting ridiculous now," she deadpans as she writes a five hundred dollar bid on a basket worth two hundred tops. She had thought at first he was trying to make a good impression at the fundraiser as the father of an incoming freshman. And then she realized, as he kept trying to outbid her for a t-shirt from the UVA bookstore he already owns and some other small bullshit, that he was jealous.
"Are you ever going to give up?" Henry asks, matching her bid and writing a six hundred dollar one.
"You can't even afford that," she whispers. And he can't, not with paying half of the tuition for the Private Schools they switched the kids to. Elizabeth had offered to pay the full amount, but he didn't want her money. It was a pride thing. He shrugs.
"Has he met the kids?" his jealousy speaks before his brain can filter it out.
"No," she shakes her head, "You know I don't like to come to these things alone," her words imply it's not serious. And he nearly cringes. He had forgotten that. His mind has finally started to erase facts about her inner workings. And for that, he's thankful. And for the gratefulness, he's guilty.
"He's a coworker," she adds.
"That you're sleeping with," Henry says, and his voice is almost angry.
She doesn't acknowledge the accusation. She's still adjusting to being back in The States again. That's why Alexander is with her. He gets coming back after a deployment. She figured Henry would've too. He's had to do it before. But she supposes he never cared what her deployments did to her. He always just cared about how they affected him.
She turns to walk away, and his hand is on her elbow, gently pulling her back.
"You're going to pay for that basket, aren't you?"
"I'll write you a check," She whispers. She can feel the tears forming. She wants to be stronger and add some dig about adding it into the child support. The judge wasn't so forgiving about deployment number two, but thankfully, the kids were, and the original schedule stands if it doesn't on paper.
"I don't want your money, Babe," He's using the nickname again, and she hates it.
"Fine. Then I'll win the bidding war,"
"I won't let you,"
"Henry, stop being childish," she scolds, "It's a fucking date for a fundraise. Who isn't actually a date. I'm still a little jumpy from Iraq, okay," she admits, "I didn't want to make a bad impression as Stevie's mom the first time I met these people."
He doesn't say anything, but his grip loosens, and his face softens. She hates how easy it is to bear herself to him. It shouldn't be. He hurt her so deeply. But they were together for fifteen years. There's not much you don't know about a person in that length of time. And now their eyes are locked too intensely, threatening to break their two-year no-sex streak.
She has to quit doing this.
Henry does it. His eyes wander to Alexander's form. The younger man is smiling and laughing at a story. And Henry's sure he's charming everyone's pants off. He's sure that's why she brought him specifically. He remembers something about her now, the way she would hide behind him at parties when she was too exhausted to be charming. He used to tease her about it, but then he'd wrap his arm around her and let her rest her head on his shoulder. She'd always be a little less exhausted after a minute or two.
"You wanna get out of here," He shouldn't have asked.
"Yeah," she shouldn't have answered.
…X…X…X…
Regret. Verb. To feel sad, repentant, or disappointed over (something that has happened or been done, especially a loss or missed opportunity).
Her sweaty body collapses on top of him as he's still groaning. His chest is rising and falling quickly. And her lips are pressing kisses on his collarbone. She's smiling and trying not to cry. They always have the best sex, even after the divorce, even after all the hurt.
"We shouldn't have done that," Are the first words out of his mouth post-orgasm. They cause a bitter laugh to escape her- an almost hysterical bitter laugh.
"You're still inside me," she whispers, removing her body from the hotel bed on legs that are still unsteady, "I mean, Jesus Henry, you can't even go a second without regretting touching me?"
"That's not what I meant," his tone is apologetic, but the anger is still there. He's angry at her and himself, and that's their problem.
"Yes, it is," She's slipping her underwear back on, "It's always what you mean. And you invited me here," she reminds him. He had texted her. He had rented the room. He had kissed her first.
"Babe," he sighs. He can't argue with her. He did invite her. They've backslid hard since the fundraiser. Twice a week, almost every week for seven weeks now. He knows better, and so does she. Yet, she comes when he texts, and he comes when she does—a toxic fated mess.
"What the fuck do you want from me?" She asks, and her voice is a whisper. He reads her body language as she jumps into the tight jeans he had trouble getting her out of. He's fucked this up again, and he knows it. She's upset and crying.
"I don't know, Babe," he shakes his head. He doesn't.
"This," she waves between them, "This is the last time. I can't do this anymore,"
He nods. He doesn't blame her. He can't do it anymore, either. He looks to the floor. He wonders why this keeps happening. Is it a lack of self-control on both their parts? Is there a deeper meaning in it? Does he want her back? Did he ever want her gone?
"You're right," he says, his eyes finding hers. He wants to ask her the questions, but he can't. His pride won't let him. And his mind won't let him. The request was a single moment of frustrated and fearful speaking. But that moment, he fated them in a direction he had not planned on.
She smiles softly and shakes her head. Her heart is racing in her chest. She wants to tell him. She wants to tell him so badly that she can't do it. She can't continue sleeping with him because she loves him. And because she never should have gone to Iraq. But she hadn't thought he meant it. He hadn't supported her, so she hadn't fought for them. And then she came back, and he was true to his word; she hadn't known what it would look like. She has two deployments down now, and she can see the tangible difference in Bagdad, and heartbreakingly, she can see the difference at home, too.
"See you at Allie's game tomorrow?" She asks instead, and she can't help the hopeful tone. She can't let it end. She can't lose him entirely.
He nods and smiles.
...X...X...X...
Repentance. Noun. Sincere regret or remorse.
Her spine is rigid. He can feel her nerves racking her body even if her face shows no sign of distress. She's a trained spy. But he can feel it in the way she hugs Jason close, at least until the newly minted seven-year-old is over it. And then her right thumb and index finger are rolling around an invisible ring. Her nervous habit. She doesn't notice his staring.
"Elizabeth?"
"Hmm," Is her non-committal reply. He watches as her eyes follow the soccer ball, not meeting his.
"Do you wanna talk about it?" He's gentle in his tone. He doesn't want her to snap. She does that when she's anxious or nervous. And he doesn't know if it's his place. Their back on track. Three weeks, no sex, no personal conversation. They've reverted to email-based co-parenting.
"No," she answers, and her voice is a whisper. The game is still going on, and Allison's team is up by one. Elizabeth admires her daughter's quick feet. She has never had a knack for soccer. Golf, fishing, and lacrosse had been her things, thanks to her father.
"Okay," he concedes, "But I know something is bothering you,"
She glances at him briefly before turning her attention back to the field, "I have to go back to Bagdad," she whispers, bracing for his reaction. He's never had a good one. Bad when she was offered the station chief job. It got worse the second time.
"I thought the point of the newest promotion meant you could send people in your sted." He tempers his tone. But she feels his frustration—another twelve to eighteen months with no co-parent. No break. She's frustrated, too. She doesn't want to be away from her kids again. She doesn't want to deal with the interrogations. She doesn't want to deal with the firefights or the bombs.
"Being the lead of the Al Queda desk doesn't mean no deployments," She says. Though Conrad also had her under the impression that it did. She had shared that impression with her kids.
"Why do you have to go?" His question is almost pleading. He wants her to give him a good answer. Something other than 'because it's my job'.
"Can't say,"
"You're leaving the kids again, and you're going to give me security clearance bullshit," he says, preparing for the fight. He wants the upper hand. What he doesn't expect is her tears. He hadn't considered her feelings on the matter. She's the one who leaves. She's the one who makes the choice. He and the kids are the ones who suffer.
"I don't want to go," she whispers. She wants to add so much more to that. She wants to say that she never should've gone the first time. She wants to say he should've forgiven her when she did go. She wants to ask him to ask her to stay- actually ask. She doesn't just want an angry ultimatum.
"I don't want you to go either," he whispers, his tone almost matching hers. Her hand moves toward his and grabs it. She squeezes three times, and he squeezes once.
...X...X...X...
Reconciliation. Noun. The act of causing two people or groups to become friendly again after an argument or disagreement.
His face is pure shock as he opens his front door- which is still the color she painted it when they moved in. Her duffle is still thrown over her shoulder. Her fatigue pants are neatly bloused into her boots.
"You're supposed to be on a plane," Those are the words his brain forms, and he only hoped they came out of his mouth correctly. She doesn't have her phone on her. She had turned it in. So, he wasn't expecting her to show up, and he's not sure why.
"Yeah," she sighs, "I'm doing what I should have the first time." She says. They stand and stare at each other the gaze is intense and warm. They're on the verge of reconciliation, and both know it. But neither has the guts to take that first step.
"Is Conrad mad?"
She lets out a breathy laugh, "Pissed, I think I'm unemployed or will be anyway,"
He steps aside and motions for her to enter, "The kids will be excited," He says. She nods. She doesn't know if she believes that. Her relationship with them has suffered less than her marriage, but it still suffered.
"They will be," he repeats, and he gives her a reassuring smile.
"Are you?" She's scared. The question is loaded.
Henry swallows. Fate. They come back to each other every time. Love. He loves her still, even if he tries not to. Even if he tries to hate her actively, he knows in his bones her love hasn't faltered. Going to Iraq despite the ultimatum wasn't due to a lack of love. He understands that now. She always loved him, she just felt called to complete a mission. Regret- the ultimatum, leaving, divorcing. Remorse. There is enough of that to fill a whole ocean.
"Yes," he whispers. He's not sure what the answer encompasses. But he thinks all the answers are the same. She doesn't move. She nods.
"Come here," he says and takes a few steps toward her. Their lips meet with the promise of a new beginning.